Winter

I observed a white dusting falling from the sky when I woke up this morning.  It was a queer sight, as though someone was pitching handfuls of laundry detergent from the roof of my apartment.

It was of course snow, but this was different.  Typically when I see the first snowfall, my heart shatters into a million pieces and I have difficulty breathing.  But this morning, I had to squint as if to make sure I was seeing straight.

My love of Winter is long gone, and we are remote as ex-lovers.  We don't talk on the phone, or mingle at parties.  We don't even call each other to say "happy birthday."  But after the Autumn, our circles clash and she's unavoidable.  And she'll always catch me at my worst: I'm checking the mail, my hair pointing in all directions, and she's blanketed in white, arm-in-arm with a millionaire; looking as powerful and beautiful as ever.  It's no use avoiding her if she sees me.  And if our eyes lock, it's all I can do to keep from tearing up and cursing into the collar of my too-thin coat.

But today was different, when I spotted her from my bedroom window.  She wasn't bounding down the street carefree.  She walked alone, her gaunt hands at her sides, and her eyes not gleaming but languid.  It was almost pathetic.  Now, I have no desire to be with her but it still kind of hurts to see her so frail and woebegone.

But only a little.  Because if I know Winter (and I do) that bitch is not to be underestimated.  I'm sure when I see her again, she won't be treading gently.  My pity will vanish, shattering like crisp icicles.